Samuel Knows Best
by My heart beats only for you
Summary: A simple gig turns bad in a not so supernatural way. Edited and reposted.
1. Chapter One

**Title:** Samuel Knows Best.  
**Author:** Me, Lisa Dee.  
**Pairing:** None.  
**Rating:** NC-17. Plenty of F-bombs though.  
**Spoilers:** Mentions of the Pilot and a wee bit of Nightmare. That's it... probably?  
**Disclaimer:** My words, my plot and my effort. Not my show, obviously.  
**Category:** Drama, Angst, Action-ish.  
**Summary:** A simple gig turns bad in a not so supernatural way.  
**Author's Note:** Very, very slightly AU. Review 'cause it's nice.

Chapter One:

The Winchester brothers received word of a haunting in Riverside, California. The Carlova family were experiencing the effects of a menacing spirit. Lights flickered, doors slammed and just last week seven-year-old Katie was thrown down a flight of stairs, snapping her small wrist and colliding her head into the railing. She would recover just fine but Frank Carlova, the father, had enough and called around for help. He got a hold of John Winchester's number through a friend of a friend and as the voice message advised, he got in contact with John's son.

Dean Winchester, the older of the two, had thought it to be pointless and a waste of gas. Sam, the younger yet taller one, had figured, (a) they were actually being paid for this one as basic as it was, (b) he hadn't been back to Cali in some time now and, (c) he promised Dean he'd finally go to Vegas with him after they were done with the gig.

Which brings us to the siblings now...

"Ahh," Dean took in a nice big whiff of the Mira Loma air as they entered the area, "Nothing like the smell of cow shit in the morning, Sammy boy." He laughed which turned into a shuddering cough.

The twenty-six old year had a cold. A sneeze here, a cough there. Nothing near powerful enough to knock the oldest Winchester son out on his ass, enabling him to finish the job but it still annoyed him. And other then the slight Rudolph-look of his nose, you'd hardly tell he was sick at all. He got it from his little brother Sam who got it from being predictably and annoying prone to illness around this time of year. The bug came and went just as quick as it hit him the week before and now it was big brother's turn.

The younger of the two just rolled his eyes, then refocused on the laptop situated on his knees again. "It's not morning for another hour and a half," He pointed out as matter-a-fact, scrolled down the webpage with a flick of his index finger, then added. "Turn left."

With one arm hanging out, rubbing affectionately at the vehicle's metal door, Dean nodded and eased his '67 Chevy Impala to where Sam had directed. A smirk appearing on his face when the Motel came into view, he shifted gears and exclaimed, "Man, I love MapQuest," as he pulled into the Motel's accessible parking lot. They stopped; he killed the engine, then opened the door to swing his sore legs out.

"Dean, why the hell did you park all the way over here?" Griped Sam, who slid out of the car as well, looking up at the giant Elm tree above. They were clear across the lot for no reason at all.

His brother was thumbing through his array of fake credit cards as he leaned against the hood. "My baby needs protection."

"You're an idiot, ya know that?" It wasn't a question.

Plucking out the Master Card he decided on using, Dean turned to Sam, hand over his heart with false sincerity. "That hurts, Sammy."

It was midnight when the boys had finally checked in the lovely Super 8 Motel and went off to locate the cemetery they needed to 'visit'. Dean made a point to hide the Chevy when they got there, just in case. They scurried out in the incredibly cold weather, the kind that had their breath freezing in the air, lugging their supplies along as they loomed the eerie grounds.

"So if these people knew who was haunting their home why didn't they just do this themselves?"

Apparently, this particular apparition had made it's presence known. Whispered his name into the sleeping children's ears, wrote it out with phantom blood across the walls; it really did make this job pathetically easy for the pair.

"Oh, I don't know, Dean," He started simply, a hitch in his tone. "They dug up a corpse last weekend and wanted to do something new for a change."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Shut up."

"You shut up."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

They stood at the foot of the final resting home of one Robert Landon Hoel (pronounced hole), said specter of The Carlova household. Together shovels penetrated grass then broke into dirt, they began digging up his grave settling on shifts after a while which was faster and easier considering they both couldn't fit in the area at once. They finally reached his coffin, and pried it open with a crowbar. Both breathless and exhausted, however, they didn't miss a beat with the burning of the bones, using the combination of sea salt, lighter fluid and of course fire. Ya know, doing the whole sending the evil spirit back to hell thing. Saving the world from an unknown evil and such.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

And even though Sam couldn't see his face in the darkness, he could tell Dean was smiling as he made his next observation.

"Do you realize that we just dug up a _Hoel_?"

Sam had to suck in his cheeks to keep his laughter at bay as the gray pollution fogged them. But the twenty-two year old was suddenly blindsided by the fact that the smoke had really gotten to his older brother. Sure, it invaded it's way into both of their young healthy lungs but for Dean, it was much worse; he was almost crippled by it and had still been coughing as they traveled down the pitch-black road, voyaging back to their cheap, don't ask, don't tell motel they checked in before.

"Gross," Sam grimaced from the graphic hacking noises coming from the drivers seat, "You alright?"

A smack to the back of his head, was Dean's only response.

Yep, Dean would be just fine.

Dean woke himself up later that night-- four in the am to be exact, half-gasping, half-coughing, gripping at the sheets that were tangled around him. He turned onto his side, stretching his neck out just far enough to spit up mucus onto the already fifthly floor. He rocked back, staring at the ceiling, absentmindedly rubbing at his bare heated chest, trying to ease the pain.

He was wide-awake now and peering over his left shoulder to the sleeping form beneath the covers merely three feet away from where he was lying. He stared at Sam, heard the even breathing of slumber and was thankful that he hadn't woken him up with all the noise he'd been making.

He propped himself onto his forearms, forcing his legs to shift and dangle off the mattress, pulling his upper body into a sitting position. He brought a hand up to his sandy blonde hair, raking extended fingers through it, ending in a sniffle.

As he stood up from the twin, his destination was the bathroom but the wavering of his jello-like legs had only taken him to the puke green retro chair lingering about five feet away next to the round table both of them had refused to eat on before.

He hardly seated him down, more like stumbled and landed hard on his hip with a small grunt. He rotated so he was sitting on his bottom and hooked his ankle around the leg of the uncomfortable chair's sibling, pulling it closer and resting a calf up on it's cushion.

He was pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, mouth twisted with pain and sheer annoyance with himself when a voice pierced through the silence of the dingy room like a knife.

"Dean?"

He jerked slightly at the sudden noise, placing a hand over his heart for effect. "Shit, Sam! You wanna give me a goddamn heart attack?" He roared hoarsely and maybe a little too forcefully for his current condition because the effort it took threw him into a coughing fit and the poor guy has to squeeze his eyes shut from the pain it brought instead of crying out like a woman would if she were being attacked in the parking lot of a Macy's.

When the tightness in his chest subsided, he reopened his eyes only to find the room lit by the lamp across the room closest to the door where his brother was standing lopsidedly, his hand just recoiling from the switch.

"Go back to bed, Sam," said with authority even though he couldn't resist the urge to shield his watery eyes from the sudden brightness.

"I've been awake for a while." The floor creaked beneath Sam's weight, "Are you sick or something?"

"No."

He answered the question a little too quick and had to conceal the wince when he heard feet thump their way toward him. He truly didn't trust his legs or lungs enough to bolt into the bathroom so as a replacement, he simply eased down casually, his sweat-drenched back pressed against the chair with a ghost of a smile playing on his face.

"You look like shit." Sam mentioned upon arrival, towering over his seated brother with his arms crossed.

"_Gee_, thanks." The elder countered, voice thick with sarcasm and congestion and before he even had any time to register it, a cool hand was flat against his forehead. His first reaction was jerking and slapping it away. "Quit it--"

"You're kind of hot," Sam said.

"And now _you're_ kind of a hypocrite."

Sam took in a deep breath. Jesus, Dean could be so fucking stubborn sometimes. He clicked his tongue, the way he did whenever he was on the verge of a mental breakdown of frustration as he became increasingly annoyed but more then anything worried. Dean doesn't really get sick. Dean was something of a nonstop being in the younger Winchester's eyes. He exhaled the breath and let his deep brown eyes settle on the other once again. "I heard you coughing," He put flatly with just the tiniest hint of concern.

"Sorry, I _woke_ you, Sammy."

_That's it._

"You know what? _Fuck off_. I'm tired."

Little Sammy could be quite the cranky Winchester at such an early hour especially when he hadn't slept at all-- what with Dean coughing up a lung and the dreams that plagued him every night. Dean hadn't meant to piss him off, really; just annoy him enough to leave him alone; he'd say anything to get Sam off his back at his embarrassingly weakened moment.

Stomping toward his bed like a child, Sam nearly knocked over the lamp on the nightstand when he reached for it. There was a _click_ and the room was yet again dark. He crawled under the golden comforter, turning so his back was facing Dean. He lay stiffly in bed, remaining unreasonably pissed. Eyes closed with his jaw still clenched, as he attempted sleep, fully aware it wouldn't come -- not when he knew his brother was lying about his health and not to mention being a total asshole about his worry for him.

Meanwhile, Dean dropped his chin onto his chest momentarily because Sam was mad at him and he's quite cognizant of the fact that he is, indeed an asshole but the sensation of guilt is gone quickly when he felt that familair tingling in the back of his throat. Gripping the armrests of the chair and with much effort, Dean heaved himself upright, staggered just a bit before silently and blindly padding toward the right where the bathroom was located. He waited until the door was completely shut before switching on the light, not wanting to disturb Sammy anymore then he already had that night; the kid needed rest.

From the chair, to the bathroom and over toward the sink, Dean was more then winded when he collapsed onto the closed toilet, crookedly. At that point, the world was spinning before him; colors blending and Dean started to inwardly debate with himself. _Get Sammy. You're in trouble._ Because deep down Dean knew exactly what was wrong. Deciding dying wouldn't work out well for anyone, his mouth opened to call for help.

He didn't stay vertical or conscious long enough to do so.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two:

_"Quiet, they'll hear us," whispered a voice in the pitch black darkness, a boy, his bare feet stuck out from underneath a bed. Softly, he called again. "Come here," But his next command was said low and cruel, "Don't you understand they'll hear us?"_

Sam approached with caution, he knew the voice, only it sounded so much younger then it did now but Sam was still 6'3" and as far as he was concerned he was still very much twenty-two years old. "Dean?" Whoa, that was not Sam's voice at all. He sounded like a child hardly the man he was today.

"Sammy, please be quiet," pleaded Dean, and his skinny legs retract out of Sam's sight. "Come here. I have something for you."

Ooh, a surprise. Sammy loved surprises. In an instant, he's down on all fours, naked knees sliding across the smooth cold wooden floor. He was scared. It was so dark but Dean will keep him safe. Crawling into the dark, he couldn't see a thing. "What is it, Dean?" He was excited, looking around, trying hard make out Dean and waiting for his eyes to adjust to his surroundings; they don't.

"You'll love it," He sounded so gentle but at the same time he seemed grim as well as if he was sad. Sam doesn't notice, only understood that Dean had something for him so he smiled brightly though he's sure his brother couldn't see him and he still couldn't see Dean either. But he hears him, heavy pants of breath, hot on Sam's face. He doesn't like how it feels on his skin. Scooting back, he asked, "Is it green?" Sammy loves the color green.

"Yeah, Sam," He choked back a sob, as his eleven-year-old hands wrap around his baby brother's neck, beginning to contrict tightly, "...it's green"

A sickening thud entered the canal of Sam's ear and it took him about a half a millisecond to process it, roll out of bed, and pounce into Hunter-Mode. Standing still, he held his breath as he listened intensely. Nothing. Swallowing hard, Sam huffed out the air he'd been holding in, his heart pounding. "Well, that was the weirdest fucking dream I've ever had..." He shifted, ready to slide back into bed when something caught his eye or more like didn't.

The chair in which Dean had been lounging in no more then ten minutes before was now empty and a quick glance to the twin bed next to his clarified that his brother wasn't there either.

Something wasn't right.

Long legs take him to the seeping light underneath the bathroom door where he busted in, without knocking and without asking. Brown orbs dilate at the sight before him, followed by a sharp intake of air -- something of a gasp but not nearly as dramatic.

Dean lay sprawled out, unmoving on the mucked up linoleum-tiled floor, looking dreadfully pale and Sam wondered if it just seemed that way because of the bad lighting from above.  
He had landed oddly on his back, head cocked limply to the left, his right hipbone stuck out and his leg was bent; right knee aimed at to the others left thigh in such a way it had Sam's heart clenching -- it reminded him of Jess.

"Dean!" He shouted, maneuvering into a leap-like stride to where Dean was currently unconscious and ending in a crouch.

Taking his brother's clammy face into his calloused hands, Sam called his name again. When he retracted no physical or verbal response, he nuzzled two fingers into his brother's neck and after a few year-like seconds, he clearly feels the throb of a pulse under his middle finger and yet again he's cupping the sides of Dean's head.

"Dean..." He called, misleadingly calm. "Can you hear me?"

He waited for something -- anything to escape his brother's throat or his eyes to suddenly flutter open, where he would tell Sam to 'get the fuck away from him' because Sam's face was ridiculously close to Dean's at the moment.

And Sam was downright scared when Dean didn't give him any of those or even a flinch as Sam's fingers began to pat at his cheeks. "Dean, open your eyes." A demand.

Sam's bottom lip rolled beneath his front teeth with confusion, panic, patience, and eagerness all balled up in one childhood habit and even though he felt the undeniable evidence of life mere seconds before, he dropped his ear down to Dean's mouth, frowning at the wheezy noise coming from parted lips that he hadn't noticed before now, the choking breath that reminded him of something important, labored breathing that sounded like a lot-- Oh shit!

And Sam on his feet now, hauling ass out the bathroom, through the bedroom and exiting the doorframe with a hop. He sprinted across the parking lot where Dean's precious Chevy was still residing under the large rotted Elm and he thanks everything that's holy when he found the Impala's doors were actually unlocked. Immediately, he went for the dash, fingering the glove compartment like a fucking mad man until the damn thing finally popped open and everything and I mean everything within it spilled out.

Why did it have to be so fucking dark out? He couldn't see a damn thing! His eyes were taking much too long to adjust to the night but when they finally did, he almost immediately spotted the off-white, nearly three inch plastic case...

-- an inhaler.

As he snatcheed it up into his palm, he instantly noted the abnormal weightlessness to it and did a double take in the moonlight. The canister was missing.

"Fuck!"

The inhaler is placed between his teeth as hands plunge back into the pile, eyes flickering and processing every single item he came across. It felt like hours and he hadn't noticed he was holding a lungful of air until the glint of the metal canister finally surfaced and he let the breath out in something of a sob as he slid the canister into the actuator. He scrabbled to his feet, dashing back to the only room with it's door still wide open and if it hadn't been for his knee connecting harshly with the corner of the 67's door, he would have forgotten to close that as well.

Dean was exactly how he left him only this time when Sam checked his brother's vitals he was alarmed by the quick yet small gasps of breath Dean was taking in, as if he was being strangled and failing the battle.

"No, no, no." A breath, "Dean! Wake up, Dean!"

He shaked him at the shoulders, stopping when Dean's eyes slightly twitch beneath closed lids, and moments later they crack open, powering Sam to take Dean from under his arms, lifting and lugging him toward the left corner where the bathtub and wall came together, propping him up into something of a sitting position.

"Stay with me, man," ordered Sam, while giving the inhaler a shake or four. Sam moved closer, popping the cap and lifting Dean's chin, trying to manually squeeze and wrap Dean's bluish lips around the mouthpiece when Dean's jaw gaped open unresponsively, his eyes frighteningly glazed over.

"Damnit, come on!" Sam was furious now or at least that's what he wanted to be -- it's so much easier being mad then absolutely terrified, "_Please_."

Even in his haze, Dean found strength from his baby brother's plea and weakly but securely covered the receiving end with his mouth and when he thinks he heard Sam counting down to three, he inhaled at just the right time, letting the cool medication travel down his throat.

Coughing and blinking furiously, Dean could have swore, he just saw his mother's face but when things slightly clear, he only found Sam in front of him. Eyes fluttered and roll to the back of his head and he began to slump, not going far because Sam was holding onto him, hugging, heaving him back up the wall.

Breathless, Sam continued to coach, "One more, Dean. Just one more and you can rest, okay?"

Dean's eyes open into slits and once again the inhaler was shoved to his mouth but this time he protested feverishly, cheeks flushing from struggling to take a single breath of air, his back arching.

"Stop," Sam orders as he presses Dean firmly against the wall when he started to thrash deliriously. "Dean!" He gasped when a knee shot up to connect with his gut.

_God, he's turning purple, he's giving up, he's fucking going to die._

Sam Winchester's swaggering, know-it-all of an asshole brother was suffocating before his eyes.

Dean can't die like this. Dean can't die.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three:

This wasn't happening... this wasn't happening.

Memories of his childhood took over Sam's vision and emotions flood Sam's soul at the sight of Big Bad Dean Winchester's failing body and something in Sam simply _snapped_.

"Stop it, you fucking bastard!"

A tear dropped while a hand retracted and _slap_ -- Dean's eyes are open now and they're clouded with pain and utter confusion. He mumbled something that sounds a lot like his brother's name, his body tensed yet stopped fidgeting; he's obeying now.

Sam repositioned himself and his brother. Frantically, he lifted Dean's chin up and yanked his jaw open again as his brother lethargically placed the mouthpiece between pale lips and Sam prayed Dean will cooperate, prayed this would work.

"One,"

It's shaky,

"two,"

Shakier,

"three."

It came out cracked, and tight, and desperate.

Hearing the magic number, Dean took in as much air as he possible could, features twisted from the ache in his chest and the bad-tasting mist that has just entered his mouth down to his thirsty lungs.

The room did a whoosh of a spin and was suddenly way too bright making Sam's figure nothing more then a silhouette before him. Everything sounded hollow and distant yet he felt horrifically and claustrophobically surrounded. He felt panicked. God, why couldn't he just breathe? Then abruptly and absurdly, the world kind of shifted and everything was ordinary again.

Dean blinked and found his brother, peering at him as if he was about to disappear, hands holding his face.

"Hey!" He said, a little too loud, making Dean flinch. He tried to pull away but his body didn't seem to be working for him at the moment and the action made Sam's fingers dig into the back of Dean's skull even more.

Dean really didn't like the look Sammy was giving him than and he really didn't like the tears checked in the corners of Sam's wide eyes, or was it sweat?

"Can you hear me, Dean?"

He wanted to shout, 'Good god, yes, now get the fuck away from me,' Because Sam's face was entirely way too close to Dean's. The idea of even attempting to speak made him nauseous so he ever-so-slightly nodded his wobbly head, eyes looking directly into Sam's for more reassurance that he, in fact, could hear Sammy just fine.

Slowly, he released his death grip in fear that Dean would fall over after he lets him go. When he didn't, Sam settled back a bit and watched his brother carefully. He noted that Dean was able to turn stiffly to the left, head cocked downward, staring blankly to a dent at the base of the wall. The color of his lips were returning to a more healthy shade of pink. His breathing -- though gravelly was easing and the fist pressed tightly against his chest was slowly unclenching and pulling away. Blinking rapidly, Dean's eyes shifted over to Sam but weren't really looking at him; his eyes were far from focused when they finally did stop moving.

And it was just enough for Sam to pull away from Dean to stand to his full height and turn to rest the inhaler onto the counter, reaching for one of the two paper cups at the far corner of the faux marble sink. Grasping the knob, he filled the cup with explicit lukewarm water because Sam was so fucking scared anything below that would send Dean into another attack and he knows, _knows_, he wouldn't be able to survive it.

"Here's some-" His sentence fell short when he swiveled around to Dean only to find his brother's crippled form. His shaky legs drawn up to his chest with his forehead pressed down onto his knees, his face hidden.

Bending down at the waist, he offered the cup, "Drink some water. It'll help."

Dean's dry swallow was visibly painful as he gently shook his head, and his, "No, thanks." would croak out in just above a whisper.

"Please, Dean." Sam lowered himself into a squat directly in front of the elder, one hand hesitantly placed on Dean's trembling bare shoulder while the other was still hovering the half-filled cup.

Dean wanted so badly to lift his head up and keep it up but only managed to tiredly slide his forehead across his knees, so half his face was observable to Sam, and where he actually admitted, though barely audible, "C-can't."

And now Sam was flat on his ass, eyes begging for everything to be okay -- for _Dean_ to be okay. Leaning in closer, he extended the cup so it was lingering just below his brother's nose. "Try," coos Sam, pressing the cup to Dean's mouth but not tilting it until he knew Dean was ready.

Dean's expression changed into a look of annoyance mixed with worthlessness and maybe just a hint of gratitude. And even though he was dreadfully spent, his damn pride was still going strong because he attemptted to lift his arm (which felt like lead to Dean) up and over to the cup, fingering it and Sam knowing Dean's arrogance understood and released the cup into Dean's control only for it to slip from the elder's grasp, plummeting to the floor.

Dean's grayish eyes cast to the water pooling around them and he frowned like a child who just chipped the fine China, once again burying his face cowardly between his knees. Dean's pajama pants are getting wet at the bottoms, h was shaking again, trying his hardest to calm himself down, coughing so hard he actually gagged.

Sam stood when the water touched his toes, backing away, heart pounding in his head, as his hand nervously patting against his thigh when he decided aloud, "I'm calling 911."

"No!" cried the almost-brunette huddled in the corner before he took in a deep breath and raised his head up, letting it thump against the wall. His eyes peer up to his brother's figure with impressively wide coherent hazel eyes. "I'm f-fine." He said, licking his lips, eyes momentarily closed as he did so, "Just... just give me a second, would ya?" Ten words and man Dean was worn-out.

Sam gazed down at him and for the first time really noticed the perfect red handprint stretching from Dean's right temple down to his jaw and Sam couldn't stop the wince from leaving his mouth. Good god, had he hit Dean that hard?

Guilt crossed his face then the expression turned to dubiousness at Dean's claim of being okay but in the end, he caved. He ran dirty hands down his face, panting and shaking.

Everything was starting to catch up with him. Slowly but surely, losing it and he utters, "Jesus, Dean," under his breath. With his hands on his hip, he focused back to the boy on the floor who's sweating yet quivering. Sam looked around the room, seized a washcloth off the metal rack above the toilet and rans it under cold water. Wringing it out, he knelt down in front of Dean.

Sam was beyond words at that point, he couldn't seem to say anything to comfort Dean or simply tell him how scared he was -- hell, he didn't exactly want to do the latter. So instead of crying like girl or hugging Dean, Sam simply reached a hand out to rake his fingers through Dean's soaked short hair and then draped the small towel across the back of his brother's hot neck.

The sound of his feet splashing below reminded him that Dean still needed water. He begins crawling to retrieve the emptied cup, stopping midway when Dean muttered, "Coffee."

"What?"

His face was crunched up at the side and it was obvious it hurt and that he was trying to hide the mark from Sam because if Sam acknowledged it... then it was really there. Clearing his throat, his voice hardly sounds any better when he spoke again. Low and gruff, "Coffee helps."

There was a question on the tip of the taller brother's tongue but it stayed there. "Yeah, okay." He said before dashing out of the bathroom, going straight for the machine stationed at a counter behind the retro table that Sam and Dean both refused to eat on before. Drawing a shaky breath, Sam grimaced at the ancientness of the coffee maker but nevertheless he popped in a flitter and began to brew a pot for Dean.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four:

Sam actually started to wait for the pot to finish. Stood directly in front of the machine, arms wrapped around his middle, watching intently as drip by drip the coffee piles up, begins counting each thunderous _ping_ dropping into the glass below. His hands were shaking. Nervous? That was an understatement. He started to pace, and a hugely huge part of him wasn't quite sure he could walk back into that bathroom again. It was ridiculously really; Dean was the one who nearly died tonight not Sam.

_ping_

Tension was replaced with anger and he imagined how great it would feel to scream until he goes hoarse or the beautiful sensation of hurling the ugly chair empty beside him across the room. Dean could be sitting there right now but he wasn't and it was all Sam's fault.

_ping_

He forgot. God, how could he forget that Dean had asthma! It was bad when they were kids. Christ, one of Sam's first horrible hunting memories was of a ten year old Dean, collapsing at their father's feet after he rescued Sammy from a seven foot tall monster (maybe that was an ex considering how small they had both been back then), who had his kid brother by the collar. Dean fought like an warrior, sprinted after the two and it was Dean who lunged at the beast, driving a knife up into the creature's ribs and at six years old, Sam thought he was to blame, thought he was the one who had caused Dean's very first asthma attack and now nearly sixteen years later... he still does.

_ping_

Sam had got Dean sick. Sam had wanted to come to California when Dean hadn't. Sam forced Dean into this job where they would have to burn bones, creating smoke, in the cold weather, and to top it all off he told Dean to fuck off, which probably stressed him out so bad he passed out on the goddamn bathroom floor.

_ping_

He knew those were Dean's triggers; hell, Sam read the pamphlet titled, 'Asthma: Taking Control for a Healthier Life' more times then anyone of the three ever did. He had begged Dean to let him monitor his brother's peak flow records daily like it was a matter of life or death and to Sam it completely was. Sam wanted to be educated. He just wanted to take care of Dean the way Dean always took care of him.

_ping_

Christ, Dean could have fucking died tonight...

Sam's head suddenly jerked when he heard commotion coming from in the small room to his left and he didn't hesitate running in, expecting something ghastly to greet his eyes. Entering, he found Dean still on the floor, head tilted back, eyes closed, looking as though he had fallen asleep right there sitting up, looking awfully comfy against the tub. One leg was extended out in front of him, as if he tried to move and failed.

_He looked so tired._

Dean's eyes squeeze tightly before they blossom, aimed at the ceiling like it was something beautiful before dropping down to fall on Sam. His skin tone was still unsettlingly pasty and coated with sweat. His eyes were half-lidded, head slanted slightly, looking more thoughtful then concerned when he pointed out with a voice sounding a little more Dean-like, "You're bleeding."

Sam's eyes cast down and indeed he was. That would explain the warmth running down his shin and the desire to scratch at it. iStupid, Chevy./i He hadn't noticed the ache before but now it felt like someone had took a jackhammer to his knee. Leaning back against the sink to take the weight off his leg, Sam grunted as the heels of his hands land on both sides of the wannabe marble, and he pulled himself up to sit on the counter.

Dean frowned almost smugly, arms crossing so his hands were slowly rubbing up and down his bare shoulders. "Looks bad..."

Sam wanted to laugh. This was so fucking typical. Dean nearly dies and yet here he was fussing over a little cut on Sammy's precious knee. God, Dean just hated the fact that Sam loved him, hated knowing that Sam was the hero tonight and not the other way around. It pissed Sam off. "It's fine," he replied sharply, the hand at his side, swooping over to cover the wound.

Dean rolled his eyes and for the first time, he let himself gently touch his cheek. He vividly remembered the white hot sting he felt when Sam had slapped him and he bet somewhere in the back of his baby brother's mind he enjoyed it. It pissed Dean off.

Suddenly, the two brothers were very uncomfortable with the other's presence. Sam at the sink swore he can still hear the _ping_ from around the corner while Dean on the floor swore Sam was loving how weak he was right now.

Fire was building up in his chest, and he lowered his intense gaze to his boxers, roughly rubbing at the royal blue plaid pattern for just a moment, before his gaze shot back to Dean with a look of malice in his eyes. "_That_ hasn't fucking happened in a while." He said with an annoyed matter-of-fact tone.

And it was true... a little spiteful and a little unnecessary for the moment, seeing how Dean was barely holding it together as it is but nevertheless – it was very much the truth. It had been quite some time since he had a severe attack such as tonights. The last time Dean had been twenty and even then it was a shock when it occurred; before that one he held a six year record.

Dean cringed, arms unfolding to wrap around his propped knee, matching Sam's glare, looking and sounding so much healthier and stronger then he had all night when he spat back, "How the hell would _you_ know?"

And it was fair... a little undeserved and a little badly timed, seeing how Sam just saved his fucking life but regardless – it was fair and yeah, it was the truth too. Sam wouldn't have known. He had missed four years of Dean's life. Anything could have happened between Stanford and now.

But it still hurt him, stabbed at his heart in such a way, he felt like someone was sitting on top of him. It was surprising that the comment even affected him at all. Swallowing hard, Sam's eyes hardened and softened at the same time but never leave Dean. "Coffee's probably done," said Sam, impassively low. He leans off the counter, stalking out of the room like a robot and wants so badly to slam that bathroom door behind him.

He doesn't.

Dean too felt like some force was wringing his lungs, tugging at his heart and no matter how much he wished it was just the ache of asthma, deep down he knew it wasn't.

_Low fucking blow, Dean. You're an asshole. You owe him; he saved your life._

Meanwhile, Sam was pacing the bedroom angrily, hands entwined at the back of his head, pulling at his hair to keep from screaming, on the damn verge of tears.

_Cheap shot, Sam. What's the matter with you? You owe him; he _raised_ you._

Frowning, he stopped at the machine, grabbed one of the two presented mugs and filled it up half-way. Inattentively, he blew at it as he turned standing at the foot of Dean's twin bed. Signing, Sam reached over to pull the comforter off and drape it over his forearm.

_The stubborn fucker might be cold in there. _

Practically stomping back into the bathroom, he hovered over Dean who was grimacing as his hands covered his eyes, squeezing them shut.

Sam didn't say anything, just simply set the cup down on the uneven edge of the tub and then flopped the blanket at his brother's feet not even waiting for a response. He just turned, walked out of the bathroom, to the exit of the motel in nothing but his snug white t-shirt and boxers. Shutting the door this time, Sam limped vaguely across the parking lot.

Though Dean's eyes were closed he still heard the clank of porcelain coming together and then felt the whoosh of air, breeze over his body when the blanket was thrown down beside him. He looked up just in time to see Sam leave, then listened as his brother stomped through the room and out the door. And god, he wanted to get up, go after Sam. Make him understand that he didn't mean any of it. Make the hurt leave his eyes – hurt Dean created.

Sam leaned against the Impala's trunk for a quick break before he opened it, immediately spotting the little white box – the first aid kit. Placing it under his arm, He slammed the the trunk shut qith his free hand. A gust of wind ruffled his hair and he shivered, dragging himself back to their room.

Dean was just about done with his cup when he saw Sam stand at the bathroom's threshold.

When their eyes met, Sam was the one to pull away first. With his head cocked down, he made his way over to the sink, back facing Dean. Setting the kit down, he popped it open. The travelers size packet of aspirin finally caught his eye and he plucked it out, not pausing to rip it open because Dean's hands were still very rickety and even though Sam was still very much fuming he couldn't bare the sight of watching his brother struggle with the task.

Turning but not all the way, Sam threw his arm out as far as he could from where he was standing, the two blue pills visible and ready to drop into Dean's hand. He was looking at he same dent at the bottom of the wall when he felt the warmth of his brother's palm beneath his fingers. Dropping the pills, he quickly returned back to the kit to took out a Band-Aid, the small bottle of rubbing alcohol and a few cotton balls before seating himself down on the closed toilet.

Dean downed the pills with the last of his coffee before he found himself watching Sam patch himself up contemplatively. A frown formed on the elders face when he thought inwardly that he should be the one attending to his brother's abrasion because after all, that's what big brothers do.


	5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five:

It's been fifteen minutes and neither one of the brothers Winchester have said a word. Not one word.

Sam still sat at the closed toilet seat, hands on his thighs, eyes scanning the small bathroom like it were very interesting yet his gaze never seemed to settle on Dean, who still sat on the floor, for longer then a millisecond or he simply just looked elsewhere all together.

It occurred to Sam that this particular Super 8 Motel's bathroom smelt of bleach and sulfur and it also occurred to Sam that the anger he was experiencing towards his brother was rather irrational. Sure, Dean was an asshole tonight but something didn't feel right about this fuming bitterness inside of him –– _not right_ –– Sam couldn't put it any other way.

Why was he even mad, really? Because Dean was being a stubborn idiot? Better question is... when _wasn't_ Dean being stubborn idiot? Was he upset with him for having a fatal asthma attack?

_Christ, he couldn't help it, Sam. He doesn't want this anymore then you do. You think you were scared? Imagine how he felt._

Yet, here the younger Winchester sat on a fucking toilet, so angry he couldn't even see straight let alone bring himself to look at his own flesh and blood. This person before him was his brother... his brother who always took care of him, who practically raised him. His brother who would die for him. His brother...

This was all wrong.

All the shivering was really starting to make Dean's ribs twinge, so he finally acknowledged the comforter Sam had brought him earlier to his right and pulled it across his shoulders, nuzzling his icy feet inside as well. Dean realized as he fingered the cloth of the blanket that he and his younger brother's harmless bickering went a little far then usual. And why? Sam had saved his life, if he weren't so reckless to begin with none of this would have happened. Why the hell was Dean even mad again? Because Sam was treating Dean like a child... because Sam had slapped him like a bitch?

_He was scared, Dean. He didn't know what else to do. Fuck, you'd probably do the same thing if you thought it would help._

It was as if neither of them refused to move from this damn bathroom. Was Dean planning on camping out here? Was Sam planning on staying?

Water from the faucet was _pinging_ in the same fashion as the coffee machine, making Sam cringe and the fact that the room was suddenly stuffy had Sam on his feet, stepping over the blanket to the small window and with much effort he managed to open it. He took in a generous amount of the fresh air seeping in and then flopped back down again.

This two-way silent treatment was getting ridiculous. Both searching for the right thing to say. Forming monologued apologies in their minds that always sounded a lot more fumbled and half-assed when actually spoken. And suddenly, like a gift from the angels, blaring music entered the bathroom from the distance, the paper thin dented walls making it all the more louder.

Both brothers ventured a glance to the small window where the music was leaking in from and then countered back to each other with a shared looks of disbelief.

Sam spoke first, dumbfounded yet amused. "What the hell?"

They both allowed a small smirk to tug at the corners of their mouths at the realization of what was playing.

Sam started, "Is that..." –

"Styx," finished Dean.

"But it's like five in the morning..."

Dean shrugged lightly, biting his lip to keep from smiling too much, he looked back up to the window as the gentle piano intro played. "Admit you love Derek DeYoung."

"Dennis," corrected Sam.

Dean pointed an accusing finger at his kid brother, smiling like a giddy child, "Ha-ha, you knew."

Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes. So what if he knew the lead singers name? Didn't mean he was obsessed or anything.

Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, Dean nodded to himself ever-so-slightly as his hazel eyes lit up with a new found purpose. He smirked lazily and looked directly at Sam with teasing adoring hazel eyes and began,

_"I'm... sailing away..."_

Sam's head shot up. Good god, no.

_"...set an open course for the virgin sea..."_ He continued, singing along with an terrible impersonation of Mr. DeYoung, his voice strangely high pitched and slightly and also purposely off-key.

"Dean, stop."

_"'cause I've got to be free..."_ He looked so serious, eyes closed as if he were trying to hit the notes just right, _" ...free to face the life that's ahead of me."_

"Dean–"

_"On board, I'm the captain,"_ He gestured to himself, _"so climb aboard,"_ then mockingly motioned with his hand for Sam to 'climb aboard'. _"We'll search for tomorrow..."_ He threw a prone hand across his brows, _"...on every shore"_

Sam stook his head, lowering it so his growing smile was hidden from Dean. He so did not want to humor him into keeping this up.

_"And I'll try, oh lord, I'll try..."_ Dean smiled widely this time, giving Sam a look to follow along who just gawked at him like he was insane.

"Oh, come on, Sammy. This is totally your part."

Sam let his eyes met his brother's and noted the glint of hope in Dean's hazel orbs. Suddenly, Sam understood what his brother was doing. Dean needed this – hell, Sam needed this just as bad. If they both couldn't find the right words then this would be how Winchester boys say their sorry tonight.

He turned his head away from the window to weakly chime in, _"to carry on..."_

"That's my boy!" Dean hooted.

Sam rolled his eyes and closed his mouth now, his arms crossing in protest. Neither of them could sing. This was just silly.

Dean pouted briefly at his brother's 'don't wanna' posture but then just carried right on. _"I... look to the sea,"_ He gave a faraway look, _"reflections in the waves spark my memory,"_ then tapped his temple. _"Some... happy, some sad."_ Dean frowned, stating jokingly, "So sad."

Sam chuckled lightly, cheeks flushing with mortification. He still couldn't believe Dean was doing this and was shocked he actually knew all the words so far.

_"I think of childhood friends and the dreams we had,"_

"We didn't have childhood friends, Dean." Sam piped in good-naturedly.

Dean was the one who rolled his eyes this time, waving a hand in dismissal at his brother before forming a fist raising it up with fake passion. _"We live happily forever, so the story goes. But somehow we missed out on that pot of gold. But we'll try best that we can..."_ His eyes widened with anticipation, throwing out his arm, pointing to Sam for his cue.

_"to carry on!"_ Sam joined Dean singing a little louder now.

The guitars finally kicked in and Sam couldn't stop his head from bobbing to the beat. They both listened to the chorus start and before Sam and Dean knew it they were leaning in toward each other, hands balled up at the mouth with imaginary microphones shouting,

_"...Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me, lads. Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me"_A breath, _"Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with me, babe. Come sail away, come sail away, come sail away with meeeeee."_

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up!" A women shrieked from the motel on the opposite side.

They froze at her command, realizing the track had ended midway through the chorus and that lady screaming to shut the fuck up was, in fact, referring to them.  
Slowly, they met each other's gaze and soon broke into childishly laughter that was awfully amplified in the room they were in but they didn't stop until Sam's ears picked up on Dean's laugh mutating into a deep ugly cough.

Sam drew in a breath, his smile fading quickly, his eyes softening to his brother's crumbing form. He sounded horrible.

Sam pushed himself off the toilet seat, down to his knees shifting onto the uninjured one. Hardly recalling the action, Sam's hands have made their way to Dean's back, rubbing gentle circles as his brother continued to cough and wheeze. "Easy..." Sam cooed, patting his back with one hand and wrapping the blanket around Dean with the other.

When Dean's harsh breathing calmed down, Sam slowly stood, hovering over Dean with opened palms extended out to him. "Come on, I'll help you into bed."

A bed did sound awesome, a lot better then the cold, most likely fungus-ed bathroom floor but Dean had other plans. He smiled a bit, his cheeks flushed then shook his head, eyes flickering toward the tub. "I'm gonna hit the shower first," He paused, reaching out to grip the edge of the porcelain for leverage, then joked breathlessly, "I feel icky."

Sighing, Sam dropped a hand down to Dean's to halt his action. "Later," he puts firmly, "you need some rest."

Dean snorted, amused at Sam's sudden sense of authority and ignored his brother's offer and order. He wiggled his arm free from Sam's hold, he began to lug himself up with the aid of the tub.

"Dean–"

"You are far from a mother hen, okay?" He stated flatly, as he pulled himself up with much exertion. Dean gingerly stood, wavered when his legs gave out, stumbled back, and then crashed down with an _oof._

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Sam saw the movement out of the corner of his eye but was too late to catch his falling brother. He immediately crouched down at Dean's side, panic and concern owning his face. "Are you okay?" He all but shouted, one hand grabbing at Dean's bicep, the other on his shoulder.

Frustrated, Dean jerked, using his extended leg to pushed him back and away from Sam."I'm fine. I slipped–"

"Last time I checked swaying wasn't slipping," Sam pressed, grabbing ahold of his brother's arms again only for Dean to pull away once more.

"Piss off, Sam. I'm fine," he retorted sharply and when Sam rushed back to Dean like a fucking boomerang, Dean reeled back and pushed him hard, unintentionally yet almost wittingly knocking his kid brother on his ass.

Sam tumbled back, eyes widen, jaw hanging and holy shit, that just about did it.

Dennis Fucking DeYoung himself couldn't save them now.


	6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six:

Sam's lanky frame shot up like a lightning bolt and his once boyish, whisper-soft facial features were now contorted with fiery, eyes flickering with fire. "Goddamnit, Dean!" He boomed.

Despite the wave of dizziness that rushed over Dean mere moments before, his head snapped up out of anger and shock at his brother's outburst.

_Who the hell did he think he was talking to? _

"Christ, don't you have any idea how serious this is! You could have fucking died, Dean!"

Rolling his eyes, Dean began firmly, "Sam, I'm fi–"

"No!" His brother shouted back loudly, and the tears visibly streaming down Sam's face have knocked the air right out of Dean's lungs.

Sam furiously wiped at his face, towering over Dean, his tone literally roaring, "What if I didn't wake up! What if I hadn't found you in time, did you think about that!"

Honestly, Dean hadn't. Man, Sammy sure knew how to make a guy feel like a totally asshole. Absentmindedly, he reached a comforting hand out to his brother, trying to calm him the way he did when they were kids. Dean frowned when he noticed his hand was shaking.

Seeing the action, Sam pulled away sharply as if Dean's touch would scald his flesh and if anything it only made him madder. "No, you didn't think, did you, Dean? You don't fucking think! You're such a damn idiot little boy!"

Dean found himself cowering deeper and deeper into the corner of the bathroom, drawing the blanket up to his chin, flinching at every hurtful word flowing from his brother's mouth. He felt ages younger then Sam. He felt like a helpless... idiot... little boy. He watched Sam's figure, the way his shoulders were hunched and trembling in such a way that looked as if something else was living inside of his skin. His breathing was struggled, making noises that sounded as if he were being strangled but he wasn't, obviously. 

Apart from Sam's rage and tears – his body language, the movements he was making now... were almost unnatural. And even though Sam was downright spitting acidy words at him as if he actually did chip the fine China, Dean was also finding himself feeling terrible, feeling guilty, feeling... responsible for ever making Sam this angry and hurt in the first place. "Sammy, I'm sorr– "

His brother's response was loud and twisted and –

"Shut the fuck up, Robby!"

– _not_ Sam.

Dean's brows furrowed quickly at the sheer disgust of his brother's words and with confusion as well, when he questioned, "Robby?"

Dean didn't wait for a response because now this was just weird and unexplainable. No one could be so angry that they call their own brother a name that didn't belong to them. With a grunt, he pulled himself up, only making it about half-way before something or in this case _someone_ rammed into him from the side, sending the back of his knees into the edge of the tub, and he folded in on himself, barreling inside.

"What did I say, you little bastard?"

Dean heard Sam shout as he made a swift grab for the shower curtains to stop his fall, only bringing them down with him and he hissed when his bare back pressed against the freezing cold porcelain.

"See what you made me do?" Sam whimpered loudly, sounding just a bit remorseful. "If you would have just did what we were supposed to do then–"

"Sam," Dean gasped, when the dull ache in his shoulder blades twinge from the fall. He shifted under the baby blue curtain that was tented over him and tries to get up, get away because Sam was scaring him now. Scaring him shitless. "Please."

Looking up through the fabric at Sam's silhouette, Dean can see his brother hovering and for a moment he let his mind think that Sam was going to help him, for a second, he thought it was an accident.

"You wanted to take a shower, huh?" Sam asked, his tone pulsing with eerily calm malice.

Sucking in a shaky breath, Dean pulled down the curtain just in time to watch Sam lean over to twist the knob and soon boiling hot water was pouring down onto him, the sharp needlelike water burning his skin. Frantically, he scrambled, slipping and sliding onto his forearms only to be shoved back down, harder. Soon after, rough hands were gripping at his upper arms, tight enough to leave horrible colorful bruises in their wake; Sam was pinning him down.

"Take your fucking shower, Dean!" Sam spat as he lifts Dean up an inch or so, only to drive his brother's body against the tub.

Dean's mind was reeling from the blow the back of his head took, but he was still painfully lucid of the fact that Sam was doing this. Sam was killing him and man, he sure wished he wasn't aware of that.

"You wanted it, didn't you?" Sam taunted, pulling him up –

Dean wished this was someone else, wished this was not his Sammy.

– only to slam him back down again.

"Take it, Robby!"

_Robby? Who was Robby? _

Dean clearly heard being called the wrong name for the second time but didn't really process it. The water level was rising so much quicker then both of them realized. Turning the water a light shade of pink as it combined with Dean's rich blood oozing from the back of his head where it has connected with the metal plug at the base.

"Sammy, please," he begged, sounded so weak and helpless and young but he didn't hear himself at all; the water was past his ears and plugging them up and he was grateful he didn't have to hear Sam's vile words anymore. It's peaceful here.

Fair crimson was starting to seep into the sockets of his eyes and the last image he saw before his vision was blurred was of Sam sneering down at him, sheer hate owning his entire being. Dean realized somewhere distant, that Sam wouldn't do this. This wasn't Sam. This was wrong. This was evil.

Meanwhile, Sam was sure he was dreaming this up right now. Surely, this couldn't be happening. This has to be a nightmare because Samuel Winchester would never, ever drown his big brother in a goddamn motel bathtub in Riverside, California. Yet, here he was, doing just that and he was fighting himself or whatever force making him do this, hell-bent on waking up because again – this wasn't really happening.

_Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, _He told himself inwardly, _Wake up, Sam! Wake the fuck up now!_

When Sam finally snapped alert, Dean's head was almost completely submerged beneath the water under Sam's weight, his own hand forcing Dean's cheek against the tub relentlessly.

Dean's eyes were wide-open with fear, his fingernails were slowly unclenching from his baby brother's arms, his body was starting to relax in horrific defeat.

Sam let out a cry of terror and thrusted Dean upward as fast as humanly possible, lovingly and powerfully wrapping his arms around his brother in a bear hug as he pulled him out of the tub, onto the floor to safety.

Dean flopped down onto his side, gasping, choking and throwing up water. His eyes were bulging and he was breathlessly rambling incoherently as his forehead slid weakly along the linoleum, desperately trying to crawl away.

Sam was doing some ranting of his own and didn't sound anymore clearer then Dean was. The words overlapping each other, all mushed and rushed. "Dean – oh god – I – oh my god – I didn't – Jesus – are you alright? are you okay? – I don't know what – please – Dean – Dean?"

Dean had yet to stop pawing at the floor in an attempt to flee from his brother's wrath. He was taking in horrible hiccupping sounding breaths and all but screamed in sheer fright when he felt Sam's hands touching his leg to stop him, to calm him. "G-g-get away f-f-f-from me," Dean half-gasped, half-cried, "d-d-don't touch m-me, Frankie!"

Sam's brows knitted so closely it looked as though he had but one as his hands recoil from his brother. "What?" Sam countered, admonished.

"Please, Frankie. I'm sorry. I don't wanna take more, please. It hurts," Dean pleaded hoarsely, still panting as he feebly continued to pull his shivering battered body across the threshold of the bathroom.

_Frankie? Robby? What the hell was going on?_

And then like a fucking slap to the face, Sam suddenly pieced everything together. They were playing out the murder of Robert Landon Hoel, a murder _committed_ by Frank Carlova, the man they came to Riverside for in the first place. How Sam knew this he couldn't say or explain... it was just a feeling, knowledge he just knew and never doubted for a split second.

Paralyzed for a few seconds at the revelation, Sam sat there stunned, his shaky hands coming up to clasp at his own mouth in horror. "Dean, I know what's hap–" He stopped, taking a quick intake of air when he witnessed Dean's frantic movements halting and only his bare feet were visible to him now. "Dean?"

When he retracted nothing but silence, he shifted into a crouch and inched closer, puckering his lips thoughtfully as he pondered at a different approach. "...Robby?" 

Nothing.

Scrambling forward, Sam finally reached Dean, who was laying prone on his stomach with his head tucked in the crook of his arm, his skin disturbingly drained of color. "Shit! Dean!"

Gently, Sam rocked him onto his back, supporting his head and neck as he did so, and noted by the deadweight that Dean most certainly was unconscious. Sam peered at Dean's face for a moment then quickly dropped an ear down to his brother's parted mouth for the third time this night.

"Thank god..." Dean's breathing was a little congested but nevertheless, he was breathing and alive and for now that's all that mattered.

Sam carefully threw his brother's limp body over his shoulder and hoisted him up, shuffling a few mile-like feet over to the bed he was closest to and where he as softly as he possibly could, lowered Dean down onto the mattress.

How quickly the anger towards his brother mere moments before shifted to love and guilt and fear was beyond Sam and he found himself propping Dean up with the aid of pillows to ease his breathing.

Vaguely, Sam heard Dean's cell phone ringing at the nightstand as he circled the bed with a thick trail of sea salt to protect his brother from whatever the hell was happening to Sam and Dean for that matter.

Sam found it strange that he was the murderer of the scenario, not that Dean better fit the role or anything. And though he nearly killed his brother, Sam knew, just _knew_, that whatever occurred in that bathroom was not of a threat but a –

His reverie was split in two, cringing at the fact that the phone was still going off. Gritting his teeth, Sam closed the short distance, snatching up the cell into his palm. He flipped it open and wearily pressed it up to his ear, never taking his eyes off Dean's chest as he watched it rise and fall.

"Yeah?" He huffed, then immediately pulled it back when he was greeted with a loud crash and a shriek of a child or maybe a young women, he wasn't all that sure. Frowning slightly, he brought the phone back to his ear with caution, "Hello? Who is this?"

Again noises, staticy and loud, nothing at all he could make out. Frustrated, he shook his head and cut off the hopeless call, tossing the cell at the base of the mattress before he stepped closer to hover over Dean. Instantly, he noted the small blotch of blood blossoming behind his brother's head onto one of the off-white pillows. Sam sighed heavily and reached down to grasp Dean's shoulders, jostling him a bit. It probably wasn't a good idea for Dean to sleep with a head injury.

"Dean?" He called and the elder shifted restlessly, murmured but nonetheless, remaining down for the count. "Hey..." Sam said softly yet firmly, "You gotta wake up, alright? I need you, okay?" Sam frowned forlornly at the sound of his own voice. So shaken, so young.

His attention was brought back to Dean as his eyelids fluttered open to stare directly at Sam. He jaw hung a little askew, eyes wide with a thousand different emotions clouding his hazel orbs.

Sam heard a gasp and later discovered it was his own.

"Dean, I'm–"

"Cold."

Sam blinked. "What?"

"M'cold, Sam," whispered Dean, as he took a gander down at his pajama bottoms that were wet at the top from the shower he took– or the one Sam gave him.

Sam nodded slowly and reached over to throw the blanket over his still damp brother, who flinched at the sudden movement. Sam pretended not to notice then settled back down onto the bed, making Dean dip down a little. Biting his own lip to keep his budding emotions at bay, Sam sighed.

They both understood exactly what happened in that bathroom, and both knew that the other knew as well and yet there are no words. Silence so loud it's buzzing and it's hurting their ears. Dean didn't look away from Sam almost as if he was waiting for him to manifest into a demon again and Sam was waiting for his brother to say something– anything.

Neither of them get what they were waiting for...


	7. Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven:

Dean Winchester was downright exhausted on so many levels right now but he didn't falter – not once. He was lying on his side, warm sheets wrapped around his middle and between his thighs. Currently, trying to keep a straight face and manage to stay tight-lipped while Sam, situated behind him, poked and probed at the back of his head.

"It's not bad..." The younger of the two announced, voice low and even, practically whispered it. He didn't want to scare Dean anymore then he already had.

The cut-bump really wasn't all that bad once Sam semi-cleansed away the caked blood there and upon better observation he added, "Could've been worse." Said mainly to reassure himself. Sam didn't want to even think about how much worse this night or morning could have all been.

Dean was alive and would physically be alright but god, he hadn't said a word for the past ten minutes, didn't even argue with Sam when he told him to roll over onto his side so he could take a look at the damage done – damage, he'd created. And Dean just did it, gave no lip. Man, did Sam wish he would have put up some sort of fight, the way Dean would have normally done.

Finally, Sam pulled away, breathed out a lungful of air and then gently pat Dean on the shoulder. "I think that's the best I can do for now." He said, forcing himself to seem relaxed.

The wound was a little swollen but would be fine nonetheless. Sam hadn't even bandaged it yet, not really anyway. He was too cautious to leave the bed to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom. Too aware of something unseen lurking just outside of the sea salt barrier, only he knew... deep down... that he wasn't afraid of it and whatever it was didn't want to hurt them.

Scooting back to make room, he watched Dean slowly turn to lay onto his back, voided eyes fixed at the ceiling, his Adam's apple furiously bobbing up and down.

Parting his lips and then licking them out of habit, Sam tried to piece together his next sentence though he knew no matter how organized and well put it sounded in his head, it would still come out all tangled and stupid in the end. Somewhat, Sam figured he got it down in his mind so he takes in a silent deep breath, ready to explain when Dean's cell phone went off.

Shooting a glance to his brother, who hadn't acknowledged the ringing at all, Sam glared only mildly and went to crawl toward the edge of the bed where the phone lay. Swiftly, he grabbed it and flipped it open, saying, "Hello?" before it completely reached his ear.

"Dean?" The breathless, shaky and familiar voice questioned.

"No, this is Sam. Who's this?" He half-turned on the bed, where his eyes finally meet Dean's but it was brief and Dean was looking at the ceiling again -- anywhere but Sam.

"Oh, Sam!" The caller sounded relieved and brings Sam's concentration back,

"It's Frank. Frank Carlova."

Sam caught himself from gasping in terror, a hand blindly reaching out to grab Dean's nearest leg, shaking it to retain his brother's attention as Frank continued.

"Sorry to call so damn early but whatever you did didn't seem to work. It's back again."

"Frank. Hi." Sam breathed nervously and saying _that_ name had Dean sitting up, panic clearly written on his face, "Um, tell me what happened?" Sam stalled.

Despite his vertigo, Dean pushed himself onto his knees, inching closer to the end of the mattress where he leaned out as far as he possibly could to regain his duffle bag in a heap near the round table. He, too, was uneasy about crossing the ring of salt.

"I called before, about a fifteen minutes ago. We had to leave the house. We're staying at a motel now..."

Dean grunted as stretched his arm out further, fingertips brushing against the fabric of his duffle bag. Looping his index finger around the strap, Dean yanked back, plopping onto the bed, pulling the item into his lap.

"The house... it's - my kids - Katie - God, he won't leave Katie alone!" Frank persisted hysterically.

Sam nodded to Frank's rambling as if he could see him. "I understand--" Stall, stall, stall. "Motel? Uh, what motel are you staying at?"

Dean dropped his father's journal onto his thigh for a moment then snatched it back up, quickly licked the end of his thumb before he started turning the pages, looking for something, anything that could help them. What did he think he was going to find?

Angered now, Frank let out a deep breath of air into the mouthpiece, hurting Sam's ear. Sam pulled back the phone just a little as Frank went on. "What the fuck does that matter? Are you and your partner going to take care of this or what? I paid you to take care of this!"

Sam shot a frantic look to his older brother who was skimming pages. He bit his lip.

Katie. The ghost of Robert Hoel had hurt her before, didn't it? It was the reason why Frank had finally called their father for help in the first place. Frank hadn't mentioned any other family member being physically attacked -- just her, just Katie. But why was Robby focusing on her? She was only a kid... And suddenly, Sam found myself slowly piecing together the puzzle.

"Katie--" Sam pulled back the cell long enough to press the right button, selecting 'speaker'. "You said it won't leave her alone. How old is she, Frank?"

Frank scoffed, then answered heatedly, "She's seven. Look, are you going to help me or not?"

Again, Sam looked to Dean for some guidance and immediately noted the wide-eyed expression his brother has and where Dean whispered, haunted, low and doubtless, "...he was seven..."

Had they not noticed the date of birth and death of Robert Landon Hoel before? God, had they even bothered to realize that the bones they were burning belonged to a child?

Bones. Robby's bones. They burned them. Why was this still happening?

As if on cue, Dean answersed Sam's inner questions, "Sometimes ghosts aren't attached to their earthly remains. Not often but it does happen." He explained professionally, his eyes locking onto his younger brother's as he pointed to text in the journal, obviously going along with what he was saying.

Sam's gaze flickered to the page, dropping the phone onto the bed, where he let his trembling hands run down his face with worry and frustration. "Then what the fuck is going to stop him, Dean?" He rushed and momentarily wondered why the hell he gave a shit about Frank fucking Carlova.

He remembered quickly.

"She's an innocent. Katie has nothing to do with this, Dean. It's her father... her age."

"What the hell are you two talking about! What is going on?" Frank's muffled roar filtered from the mattress. They almost forgot he was still there.

Abruptly, the room dropped way too many degrees in temperature, making their breath come out in small white puffs. Dean turned to Sam and Sam really didn't like how disorientated his brother's distant hazel eyes were staring into him, his whole body was shivering.

His lips were moving before he finally whispers, "Justice..." He looked so young. Dean sounded all but seven years old. "Confession, Sam. He needs to confess what he did."

Static started leaking from the cell and they both clearly hear childish giggling now. It was loud, all around them, _close_. It was Robby.

"Frankie..." Robby's voice singsonged.

"W-what's that? Who's there?" Frank demanded.

Moving the journal back onto his thigh, Dean exhaled noisily, "It won't stop. He'll kill her, Frank. Own up to it. Turn yourself in. It's the only way to save her." Though, that was a bit of a lie. An exorcism of some sort could probably work but this seemed right. After all, this was an unsolved, covered-up murder.

If only Frank would just cooperate, instead he just kept insisting harmlessly, "I don't know what you're-"

"Frankie! Frankie! Frankie!" Robby's playfully deranged voice interrupted, sending shivers down their spines.

"No..." cried Frank and if they could see him now, he was shaking, nearly sobbing with fear, "No, you aren't there. You're dead."

Again, booming laughter, followed by, "You killed me!" It was so piercing it has the Winchester brother's literally having to cover their ears.

A light breeze rushed past them, ruffling their hair then it picked up quickly, forming an almost mini-tornado circling the twin bed and without really realizing it, their pulling closer to each other, huddled, protecting one another.

Sam reached for the phone, pulled it directly in front of his mouth and yelled, "Frank! Listen to me, you need to admit you killed Robert. You have to or he'll kill Katie!"

An unnatural high-pitched scream bounced off the walls and the wind was so powerfully it knocked the brothers onto their bellies, pinning them down.

"I'm sorry! Please, just leave my baby alone!" Frank pleaded, barely audible aligned with all the noise, "I did it, okay! I killed Robby. I killed him! I killed him!"  
But they still hear him -- more importantly Robby does.

Screeching filled the room again along with a blinding flash of white light but both were gone just as quick as they came, taking the howling wind with them. Slowly lifting their heads up from the cover they took, the brother's both pan the motel room skittishly, finding nothing out of place or unordinary, almost as if they dreamt it all up.

All they heard was the dial tone...

"Hey, Sam?" Dean asked weakly as he gingerly sat up, back pressing against the headboard.

Sam raised, following suit, and faced his brother. "Yeah, Dean?"

A grin was playing on the elders pale, sweat-beaded face,

"Wouldn't you say we were in a _Hoel_ lot of trouble just now?"

Sam cracked a smile, shaking his head. "Shut up."

Dean closed the cell and countered with a wider smirk that Sam couldn't help but think looked strained.

"You shut up..."


	8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight:

After a solid minute of uneasy awkwardness, Dean lowered himself back onto the bed, curling into his side, facing Sam this time and Sam took the gesture as a good sign, only not because Dean normally wouldn't feel the need to rest unless he was that spent or weak.

Sam took their father's journal into his hands, traced his thin fingers at the spine. The damn thing was falling apart, the leathery smell faded long ago. His gaze moved to Dean and he discovered that his brother was watching him intently. Sam couldn't pinpoint the look Dean was giving him, not at all and that annoyed him.

"What?" The question was asked low and was voided of emotion.

Dean did a shimmy on the mattress, didn't really make any effort to shift into any particular direction and Sam could almost call the movement 'fidgety' but he rethought that idea and concluded that his big brother doesn't _do_ fidgety.

"You're not tired," It wasn't a question. "and you look awfully thoughtful, Sammy." Dean has matched Sam's volume, the corner of his mouth pulling it's self into a weary smirk. "Sharing is caring, bud, so spill."

The tension and danger was gone, and yet they were still whispering for no reason at all, and though they both noticec it, they continuec their hushed conversation.

Meeting Dean's gaze, Sam attempted a smile or something akin of one but failed. He took in a shallow breath and finally felt himself ready to discuss what had been mulling in his mind for the past thirty minutes.

"As crazy as it sounds I don't think little Robby wanted to hurt us." When Dean simply snorted, he continued, his voice a little louder and a little more peeved. "No, I mean, I don't think he wanted me to—" Sam couldn't even _say_ it. "I think he just wanted us to know what really happened and that was the only way he knew how to show us."

Dean nodded slowly, those lips of his pucker smugly. "Easy for you to say you weren't the one drowning, dude." The worry the crossed his kid brother's face had his eyes rolling; he quickly amended. "But I think I kind of know what you're talking about," His brows knit briefly. "When it was happening I felt... I don't know, scared but at the same time I wasn't because I never felt near-death only..." He tilted his head, "...I was but… not?"

Sam leaned forward, moving closer to Dean, taking a gentle hold of his chin, lifting to get a better look at his brother's pupils, "You might have a concussion..." He was serious.

And to Sam's utter surprise, Dean laughed, warm and low and genuine, "I knew that wouldn't come out right no matter how logical it seemed in my head." He smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes, which were red-rimmed and hellbent on pretending not to be tired; they didn't fool Sam.

Sam would have too chuckled at the comment if it hadn't been for the raspy breaths his brother was taking in. Moving his hand from Dean's chin to cup the ball of his brother's shoulder, Sam frowned at how hot Dean's skin felt under his touch. "How's your chest feeling?"

Dean weakly shrugged his occupied shoulder, which was bruised from Sam pinning him down before but he doesn't have the heart to mention that. And just the light pressure of Sam's comforting hand actually kind of hurt.

"It's alright." When he received a squeeze of - what is it? disbelief? encouragement of the truth? - he made a scoffing noise and admitted with a reassuring smile, "It's a little tight but it'll be okay." _I'll be okay._

Sam still looked skeptical but released his hold. It wasn't like he could really do anything about that anyway. Dean would have to wait to take another dosage of medicine and there was no way in hell he'd willingly and or consciously be up for a trip to the hospital. Sam hated that if he were in the same situation, Dean wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. He'd throw his baby brother, in all his 6 foot 3" glory, over his shoulder and walk him to the nearest infirmary if he had to. 

Letting his hand fall into his lap next to the other, Sam sat there for a moment, staring blankly at his brother, musing. He half wished Robby was still around because lord knew Sam has questions that were nagging at his brain, the kind that really served no purpose like when you couldn't remember that actors name on that one 80s sitcom and when you finally discover his name was Baio, Scott fucking Baio, you're ridiculously beyond relieved.

Why had Robby cast him as the role of Frankie? Why hadn't the little fucker just told them on a gust of wind or some other ghostly shit like that? Was all that anger he was feeling since 4am his or was he just under the influence of Frankie's emotions the whole time? Who was Robby anyway? We're they brothers, is that why they were picked for this horrid reenactment? What had Robert Hoel done to be murdered at the tender age of seven?

"Dude, take a picture. It'll last longer."

Sam blinked and found Dean smiling at him worriedly; it wavered at the look his kid brother was marring, the same one his features had been making for the past minute and it only grew further.  
"Jesus, Sam. Get over it." Wow, that totally wasn't the comment Dean was going for. It came out a lot more harsher then he intended but he doesn't mention that; he doesn't revise.

"Get over it?" It seemed Sam wasn't lost in thought anymore and had found his voice again; loud and reproachful. He was just about furious. "I nearly kill you and you tell me to get over it?" He let out a bark of a bitter laugh, "Fuck you, Dean. Just—" He moved to gets up, and backs away. Okay, he was past furious now. "Fuck you."

But it was more then that and to simply chalk it up to this night in particular was a damn insult. It was _everything_ -- before this night even. Tension that has been budding and spilling over unnecessary situations such as this one, since late September when Dean reeled Sammy right back into this life he hated.

Bewildered, downright livid, then just annoyed, "You said it yourself! He didn't want you to kill me! So, what the fuck are you having a conniption fit over?" Dean was trying to be helpful, honest to god, he really was.

He watched Sam pace the left side of the room, subtly shaky hands making their way to clasp on either side of his head. "That's just it though… I—"

"What, Sam, what!"

Sam stayed silent but he really didn't have to say anything. Guilt was painted as clear as day across his face where a seemingly permanent dent had formed on Sam's forehead.

Dean had seen just about enough. He groaned, "Oh, god," with such dramatic annoyance, coming off almost effeminately, "_Please_, don't tell me we're doing _this_ again."

"This?" Sam repeated, a cross between pissed and taken aback.

"Yeah, Sam. This— you guilt-tripping yourself when a spirit fucks with your head. I get that you couldn't stop yourself, man. Hell, I was temporarily seven and I couldn't do a damn thing about it." Dean huffed out a breath. God, he was too tired for this bullshit. _Patch Sammy up and go to bed_, was all he had planned.

Sam turned away, fists balled up at the hips, his shoulder blades tensed and Dean wanted to punch him. Just outright and deck the kid so they'd both get a decent night's sleep. He didn't, of course because well then he'd have to get up in order to do that. Instead, he breathed out evenly and propped himself up onto his elbows.

"Not to flatter you or anything but when you were holding me down, it wasn't as strong as you could have done and lord knows I could kick your ass… It was almost like we were both—"

"Kids," Sam finished.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, exactly. Therefore, it wasn't you. It wasn't me," Light, make it light, "I mean, god, did you hear me? I was a few stutters and tears away from blubbering," He smirked, "Now shut up, I'm tired of hearing myself talk." 

There was a long stretch of silence and Dean's proud of himself when he noticed Sam relax, "That's new," his baby brother finally said as Dean was already moving down onto the bed again,

"Prick." He threw back.

And just like that the crisis was averted and Dean's eyes were closed. "Hit the light, would ya?" He all but slurred to Sam as he turned slightly, a hand tugging at the thin sheets to wrap around himself.

"Not yet, dumbass. I have to dress that wound properly."

Dean made an exaggerated groan of protect, sounding like a five-year-old who had been denied a piece of cake or a shiny new toy at the store. 

Sam shook his head and disappeared, heading off into the bathroom. When he returned Dean was actually sitting up at the edge of the mattress, shoulders sagging, eyes half-mast, a childish frown marring his face and Sam couldn't help but laugh. The noise made Dean look up, annoyed with his baby brother's amusement.

A few dabs of peroxide, rubbing alcohol, and a secured sterile bandage later and Dean was hardly awake anymore, currently teetering dangerously at the edge of the bed and if it weren't for Sam's steady hand, the elder would have probably fell over.

Sam smiled almost sadly at his brother's defenselessness and gave Dean's shoulder a gentle pat when his work was finished. Half-turning, Sam tidied the items of the first aid kit before closing it and when he glanced to his brother he found that he was already in bed, sprawled out and lookin' comfy.

"Light," Dean called groggily.

Though Dean's eyes were closed, Sam complied and then shuffled across the room to his own twin bed. Groaning when he plopped down, Sam crawled beneath the covers.

"Fucking sleep already." Dean complained when Sam tossed and turned on his mattress, trying to get into a comfortable position.

Sam snorted, rolling onto his side, facing Dean. "I don't know why you're bitching about sleep. I'm just gonna wake you up every two hours anyway." He sighed heavily, shifting again then finally settled.

Dean pouted in the darkness. "Concussions blow."


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine:

They spend three more days in Riverside, ironically in the same hotel room because neither of them expected Robby to make another guest appearance and they were right.

72 hours of Dean mostly sleeping off his illness and Sam mostly hovering or surfing the net or papers for anything worth looking into; neither of them really find what they were seeking.

They pack up all their gear, check out of the motel and hit the road at noon with no real destination other then getting the fuck out of this godforsaken place. It was cold out though the sun was shining bright. Sam drove while Dean sulked at the fact. His complexion was still a little pasty but that slight red tinge to his angular nose was gone now as well as the coughs and sniffles.

About ten minutes into their exit, the car's gas tank was nearly on empty. Annoyed, they pulled over and both entered the station. Sam headed for the bathroom to take a piss while Dean brought snakes and pumped the gas.

When Sam walked out of the convent store, with a paper baggy loose in his hand, he found Dean in the driver's seat now, looking as pensive as ever, a hand cupping his chin with his finger nearly covering his upper lip. His brows were furrowed, hazel eyes cast down. The intense concentration would have been comical if it hadn't been for the newspaper opened up in his lap.

Sam had spotted the particular issue in the men's room and for some reason he didn't want Dean to see it; he probably wouldn't have even mentioned it once they were back on the road, putting Mira Loma in the rear view mirror.

Too late…

_"30 Year-Old Murder Mystery Solved."_ The headline screamed. It actually wasn't even a headline. It was small and at the bottom left corner; without either of them knowing, it pissed them both off that the article wasn't bigger.

Sam sighed deeply, chewing absently at the inside of the cheek as he strolled casually toward the Chevy. The window was rolled down as Sam leaned his gaunt frame into it.

The yellow bag of M&Ms came into Dean's line of vision and he smiled, _really_ smiled for the first time in three days, eyes lifting over to Sam, expressing a silent thank you.

As Sam rounded the car from the back, he bent down a bit to make sure the gas cap was secure before he picked up his pace a tad. After he plopped heavily into the passenger seat, Sam noticed that the newspaper was tucked away, forgotten or at least they were both pretending it was. Starting the engine, Dean revved before he peeled out onto the almost-vast road.

The last three days had been awkward. When Dean had finally slipped into a deep slumber, Sam had tried to call Frank Carlova back but received no answer. Sam, of course and no big surprise, hadn't slept a wink that first morning when everything had happened. He woke Dean up every two hours just like he had promised and somewhere in between those 120 minutes, he attempted to reach Mr. Carlova a few more times.

In the end, he gave up when it took a little longer for Dean to gain his bearings and when he wasn't all that sure about what city they were in for about five way-too-long seconds. It was then that his brother became Sam's main and only priority.

On the second night, Sam awoke to the sound of his brother getting sick in the bathroom. At first, he didn't want intrude, didn't want to make Dean embarrassed with Sam walking in on the act and ultimately having taking care of him… again.

But even as he was hesitating because of this stupid reasons, Sam had already got up out of his comfy warm bed, was already halfway to the bathroom door, his hand was already reaching for the knob and then he was in there with Dean, peering at his brother's form, hunched over, hugging the porcelain tight.

_"Hey," a pause and even how lame is it to ask, he's gotta do it, "You alright?"_

A moan was Sam's answer. A whimper so miserable and gruff, Sam actually didn't really know what to do. Dean never gets sick like this. The role reversal made him uneasy because of the lack of knowledge; the uncharted territory. This here was Big Brother Land.

Sam watched as Dean lifted his head just a bit, just enough to properly reply his little brother's query, "I'm puking," he said pensively almost disdainfully as if Sam hadn't noticed or like he himself just received the memo.

"I can see that," retorted Sam, risking another step inside the dimly lit bathroom. When Dean made no move to protest physically or verbally, he took another step until he was towering over the elder and then Sam squatted just as his brother coughed his way into another bout of sickness.

A hand was placed in the middle of Dean's bare sweat-drenched back and Sam could feel a tremor surge up his brother's spine. He was shaking like crazy though he no doubt had a fever. He asked low, cringing. "Do you need anything?"

Dean spat and gave a small shake of the head before he pulled back, eyes averted, neck barely keeping his head up. "Uh uh."

Sam frowned. What could Dean possibly need other then to just be able to sleep a full eight hours without having to scramble into the bathroom?

"Alright." Sam made a move to leave, stopping when Dean asked softly, beseeching,

"Stay?"

Sam was taken aback by the request, frozen in mid-rise, staring intently at his brother's half-illuminated feature, with one brow arched. Then slowly after the initial shock ebbed away, he lowered down to sit Indian-style beside Dean. "Sure."

And he did just that for as long as Dean needed.

Paper rustled, jarring Sam from his thoughts and to look to his left where his gaze settled on Dean who seemws to be struggling with opening the bag of M&Ms with his teeth and steering with his elbow at the same time. Sam smirked, slanting his head much like a dog does when it heard an annoyingly loud screech and he tried not to laugh when Dean mouthed _Yeah!_ when he finally succeeded.

"Mont fom?" Dean said after popping way too many candy coated chocolates into his mouth and Sam could only assume his brother had asked 'want some?'

He grinned even more, but shook his head 'no', and watched Dean, still driving with an elbow. His brother tilted the bag over where a single M&M fell into his palm. He swallowed down the lump of mushed M&Ms, a hand on the wheel again while his other was closed and extended out to Sam, "You sure?" He smirked and let his fist blossom, "...It's green."

And like a tidal wave, words and visuals of Sam's dream – or nightmare flooded his mind and he sat very still, staring a hole right through the candy coated chocolate peanut.

_"Yeah, Sam..." He choked back a sob, as his eleven-year-old hands wrap around his baby brothers neck and he squeezed tightly, "...it's green"_

His gaze raced back to Dean's eyes. "Why did you say that?" He accused, cowering toward the door.

"Fine. No M&M for you, dude." Dean laughed, a brow rised up to his hairline.

"Quiet, they'll hear us."

Dean frowned, showing his bewilderment, eyes flickering from his younger brother to the road then back to Sam again. "Who— what the hell are you talking about?"

"That's what you said in my dream the other night. When you had your attack and—"

"A dream?" Dean cut in and looked annoyed at ever seeming worried. But then again, Sam just didn't have _dreams_ and when Dean really thought that over, he was back to looking concerned again.

"Yeah, we were kids in this one. You were hiding under the bed and wanted me to come to you. You were scared and kept saying that they'll hear us."

At this, Dean's features darken briefly and he looked thoughtful. Shifting in the seat and staring straight ahead, his lips pursed. "That never happened," he said with confidence.

Sam was aware of that; never in his twenty-two years of living did that particular experience occur. "You told me you had a present for me..." He started simply, calmly.

Dean forced a grin, playing it cool and collected, "Now you really know that wasn't real," he joked.

"And then you started to strangle me."

Dean turned so sharply that the car actually swerved off the road for a moment. Sam shot him a curious glance and didn't really like how pale his brother suddenly looked. Dean's jaw was set and the two stare at one another briefly. Again, Sam was the one to pull away first for a number of reasons, one being that Dean really should be watching the road 'cause, yeah, he was driving.

"Did I?" –

"No," was the quick reply from Sam. "You didn't kill me or… at least I don't think you did; I woke up before I got to that part." He hadn't technically witnessed his dream death so it wasn't a complete lie though he had a good feeling that was exactly what was going to happen.

"Kids, huh?" Dean asked a moment later, a hitch in his tone. Looking back to Sam, he was almost smirking with sudden confirmation. "You wouldn't happen to be—oh I don't know— _seven_ is this one, were you?"

Quirking a brow, Sam matched his brother's expression, nodded and than looked out the window again. Suddenly, he felt absolutely sick to his stomach.

Had he really dreamt of Robert Landon's death? But that didn't make sense. Sam had tried to _drown_ Dean not strangle him. Did his dream have anything to do with what happened to Robby and Frankie almost 30 years ago?

When they stopped for a long, barely moving slowing train to pass, silence enveloped them both.

"He was only trying to protect him," Dean's voice filtered, bringing Sam back to reality. His brother's eyes were distant, lips parted slightly and trembling just barely, head tilted as if this odd realization had just hit him head on.

Sam shifted, eyeing him, hoping he'll continue.

_Protect him? Protect who? What was Dean talking about?_

"Quiet, they'll hear us…," repeated Dean, low and _just_ like he had in the dream, in that same dourness yet gentle tone.

Keeping his eyes on his brother, time seemed to slow down. This wasn't right, Sam thought. He could feel it so deep in his bones; the air was off, denser. He could feel the wrongness surrounding them, can almost forebode the disaster up ahead. His heart was pounding through his two front teeth, his sweaty palms tight, gripping his knees.

This wasn't right.


	10. Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten:

"Quiet, they'll hear us…," repeated Dean, low and _just_ like he had in the dream, in that same dourness yet gentle tone.

Keeping his eyes on his brother, time seemed to slow down. This wasn't right, Sam thought to himself. He could feel it so deep in his bones; the air was off, denser. He could feel the wrongness surrounding them, can almost forebode the disaster up ahead. His heart was pounding through his two front teeth, his sweaty palms tight, gripping his knees.

This wasn't right.

Hazel eyes dart wildly for something – anything. Holy water… where is the holy water? Bible – Jesus, what verse would he have to read? Sam was breathing hard as his thoughts and emotions flooded him, overwhelmed him to the point where he was motionless as well as speechless.

This didn't make any sense. Why was Robby back? What would it prove? Fuck, they nearly killed each other for the little bastard's closure and now he was using Dean's body again, fucking with his mind and for what? Frank was paying the price now. Sam didn't understand.

The younger Winchester went for the dash, hands not even making it to the glove compartment before Dean snagged his wrist, fingers encircling tightly, halting him. "When you said that…" Dean started, loosening his grip when Sam goes tense as if he were afraid. "I remembered," Suddenly his eyes were wide, imploring and maybe even a little scared. "Don't you remember?"

And all Sam could do was shake his head, while his chest continued to constrict. What could have his brother recalled that would cloud his eyes with such horror? So Sam stayed quiet; he needed to know and Dean obviously needed to tell him.

"I passed out, didn't I?" He asked rhetorically, a hand to his head like all of this recapping hurt. "I had a dream," explained Dean, looking pointedly at Sam now. "I just remembered it."

Sam watched closely, looking concerned when he felt Dean's hand was shaking as he still held his wrist in a vise-like grip, like he needed that connection, needed it like a lifeline.

"They both took pills, a lot of 'em," Dean clarified and he could feel Sam's pulse racing through his wrist. "But— but Robby threw up, they both did so they had to take more but Robby didn't want to, he didn't understand."

_"Please, Frankie. I'm sorry. I don't wanna take more, please. It hurts," Dean pleaded hoarsely still panting as he feebly continues to pull his shivering battered body across the threshold of the bathroom._

"Then they were there, downstairs, and Robby wouldn't be _quiet_, he was crying so loud and they were gonna hear us—" Dean's face crunched up and he shook his head, "I mean them. Them. They would hear them."

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Sam asked gently, his free hand on Dean's shoulder, trying to calm him down because his brother was on the verge of hysteria.

The touch didn't help because Dean ranted on. "They touched them - or the man did and the woman didn't stop it. Kind of like Max's step-mom, only this chick was much more fucked up." He paused, finally meeting his brother's worried eyes. "Fuck, Sammy, he molested those kids." He said, shaking his head with disgust.

For a brief moment, he was quiet and he released Sam's hand, letting it drop. His own hands moved to the steering wheel, white-knuckled as he gripped it tightly as if he wanted to strangle the damn thing. "He was little, he didn't know it was wrong, but Frankie knew and he wanted it to stop but there was nowhere to go and he was scared. It was gonna be so easy; they would take the pills and just go to sleep… but Robby wouldn't stop crying when he got sick."

The words poured out of Dean's mouth, his eyes were darting as if the information was circling around his head, floating aimlessly in the car's interior. His chest was starting to heave, making Sam worried; he needed to calm his brother down.

"Okay, okay," Sam coaxed, his flat palms rising in a halting manner. "Just relax; it's alright."

"_Alright!_" Dean suddenly snapped and Sam couldn't help the resulting balk. "Jesus Christ, Sam, we just sent a man to fucking jail for something he did when he was twelve! It wasn't murder. It was like a suicide pact gone wrong."

"A pact, Dean? He was seven! A little boy!"

"And so was he!"

Dean's wild eyes had finally stopped but now they were simply furious. His erratic breathing changed but only for the worst, slow shallow breathes. The wheezing was like thunder in Sam's ears. Slowly, as if he were dealing with a wild, wounded animal, Sam inched closer to his brother, rested a hand on his shoulder while the other went for the dash again.

Dean mistook the gesture for something else. "I'm not possessed, you fucker."

"I know that," was the quick almost witty retort. _Now_ he knew that. There was a small pause and than Sam threw out a comically chirped, "Cristo?" and was happy when Dean's lips curled into something of an amused smirk.

"You need your inhaler." Sam said a moment later and Dean, of course, rolled his eyes but didn't verbally object, knowing his brother was right. Giving Dean's arm a pat, Sam moved back for the dashboard again...

"I got it," huffed Dean as he reached across himself. He fumbled with the knob for a moment but didn't allow the thing to fly open, letting everything within disperse the way Sam had done a few nights before. Snatching out the plastic piece as he moved back into his seat, Dean shook it, getting ready.

Sam looked away when the mouthpiece, ridded of it's cap made a beeline for Dean's pursed lips because Dean has always fucking _hated_ it when Sam watched this process though he never actually voiced it. It was just a screaming vibe that Sam always got, so he always managed to 'busy' himself as this part happened. Dean was thankful for the hugely small gesture.

There was a _hiss_, when the canister was depressed and Dean let out that expected gagging choke like he always did because apparently, it tasted nasty. After all these years you'd think he'd get used to it. Another hiss followed and soon Sam jumped an inch when the inhaler was tossed carelessly into his lap.

"There," Dean sighed, annoyed, and then started to drum his fingers against the steering wheel, anxiously.

The back of the train just barely crawled enough for Dean to pull through but the guardrails had yet to go up so they wait, stare straight again and hate the silence. Dean drew in a deep, even sounding breath to the left while Sam pretended to be very interested in his nail cuticles to the right.

Suddenly, they both say they're sorry at the same exact moment but Dean, ever-so-persistent, continued on.

"You're right, I guess… he made him take more, forced the fucking pills down his throat…" he trailed off at the end. "He choked, I think… Frankie panicked and took more himself. The kid was already dead when… they found Frankie just in time. Saved him. Thought they saved him." Sam couldn't help but think how sad his brother looked as he said this. _Thought they saved him._ Apparently they were wrong.

Sam nodded as if he understands it all and then offered nervously, shakily: "You know as well as I do that ghosts usually don't see in black and white, Dean. Murder is murder; there's no gray. And the fact that he was a kid and didn't know better about what was happening probably didn't help matters in the afterlife either." Sam averted his eyes as his hand absently moved to his lower abdomen, palming the tenseness that was knotting his muscles. His stomach was and has been in tangles for the past three days now. Everything that's happened was weighing down, heavier, heavier right on his shoulders and they slumped.

Honking of a horn from behind made them both jerk, startled. In the rearview mirror, there was a powder blue truck, a Ford, and it was tailgating the Impala. Without them noticing, the guardrails had finally gone up. Ford Guy honked again from behind, just to be a dick. Dean got the hint and eased the Chevy over the bumpy tracks, pulling back onto the road again.

Like clockwork, Sam heard Dean smacking his lips together, and he looked over to see his brother's face twisted in a grimace, his tongue lapping up the lingering mediciney taste coating the inside of his mouth.

"Ugh, do you have any gum or something?"

"Um…," mumbled Sam, leaning forward for the dash again. "Lemme see." He popped it open... with caution this time, and rummaged around for a while. Sam froze at what he uncovered. "Dean!"

Dean's eyes bulged. "What!"

"What the hell are these?" Demanded little brother and in his hand he held (more like crushed) three dime width, five inch Manolete Thompson cigars.

Dean flinched and felt like a teenager again, only his old man would not look half as pissed off as Sam did right now. "Uh, I was holding them for a friend?" He offered jokingly and Sam just looked even more livid.

When said person drew in a deep, lungful of air, Dean cringed, knowing a full fledged lecture is about to come. And… now!

"This isn't funny, Dean. Are you trying to kill yourself! Here I am freaking the fuck out because I got you sick, because I wanted to come here in the first place. And this whole time you're smoking cigars behind my back!"

"Are you done?" Monotone, bored.

"Yes!" Sam sputtered. "I mean no! What the fuck is wrong with you!"

"They're dads," explained Dean.

"You saying you've never smoked one?"

Dean frowned. "I might have… dabbled."

"Dean!"

"Simmer down, it was only once and I learned my lesson. Trust me, _they're_ dads." A moment later, he risked a glance to his kid brother and noticed the way he was holding his stomach and the way his shoulders were tense yet at the same time they were drooping in defeat. Dean knew this body language all too well…

"None of this is your fault, Sam."

Sam looked over with brows to his hairline, caught off guard, he spat, "I know that—" He really didn't.

"You sure? Because what you just said right now… about getting me sick, about coming here. Plus you've got that 'I'm to blame about anything and everything goin' on throughout the whole fucking galaxy' vibe radiating off of ya…" A beat, "…I know you."

That 'I know you' somehow made Sam want to cry. Dean did know him, was probably the only person in the whole world that ever really did… or wanted. So he smiled and meant it and nodded back ruefully. "Yeah, I know, Dean." And it had _countless_ interpretations.

Big brother seemed to back off and was paying attention to the road ahead of them now. Sam scoffed, shaking his head. This had to be the most talking they've done in a god damn week. But why ruin the roll they've got going now?

"I can't believe Dad let you smoke one of those…," he trailed off, looking pensive suddenly. "I always wondered why he never seemed angry or annoyed at the fact— your asthma, I mean. Knowing him, I always wondered why he never told you to suck it up or some shit like that. He was always so… patient about it." He laughed, bitter and low. "I mean, jesus, he told _me_ to suck it up when my appendix nearly burst and I was nine."

Dean answered in a whisper. "I think mom had it…"

And it made perfect sense now. Sam felt warm and squishy feelings toward his father and almost felt jealous of Dean for having that connection with their mother. Dean had her eyes, nose, and hair and what the fuck did Sam have? Her death dangling over his head? _Literally_. It wasn't fair.

All Sam can whisper back was, "Oh."

They go about five miles in less-tense silence and end up having to stop at a red light this time, a four-way intersection and they both think it's ridiculous because the only other car in sight is behind them, that stupid fucking Ford again.

Sam looked down and noticed for what it seemed like the first time that Dean's inhaler was still in his lap. Bringing it up, he popped out the canister to read along the fine print. He gave a curious, "Huh" Making Dean turn to look over at him.

"What?"

"It's just," began Sam, looking thoughtful, "I noticed that you updated your prescription." When he cast a look to Dean, he saw that his brother looked almost confused. "I mean…" Sam looked worried, "Did this happen a lot while I was gone – your attacks? Enough for you to be…" Then he looked horrified, "precautious?"

Dean had to think for a moment though he knew exactly when the last one occurred. It was right before his dad pulled a Houdini, right before he came and got Sammy. Dean was laying low after an attack physically wore him out in New Orleans. He was sleeping it off when he got his father's call. The voicemail he showed Sam at Stanford, the very one that started it all.

"Nah, just the weather or something. You know how it goes."

Sam did know, knew too much.

Dean paused, smiling when the damn light finally turns green. "Anyway, you always rode my ass about it," explained Dean with a small shrug of the shoulder, as his foot eased down on the gas pedal. "It's habitual now, kind of like making sure the shotguns are loaded at all times."

Sam couldn't help but smile at this. "Right," he said, mockingly. "Well habitual or not, I'm glad you do. It's about time you listened to me"

Dean's arm flailed out to Sam, his hand swatting at him annoyingly and playfully though his eyes stay glued to the road. "You're such a know-it-all, you know that, don't you?"

Sam shrugged his broad shoulders, keeping them up near his ears for a little longer then usual, and where stated as a matter-of-fact, "Well, you know, Dean… Samuel knows best."

Dean snorted, orbs flickering heavenward into a quick eye roll at the reference. "Says you," He shook his head. "I hated that fucking Father Knows Best show you used to watch religiously."

"I didn't watch it religiously." He totally did. "It was just the only thing that ever came on in all the cable-less, five channel motels we stayed at."

"Yeah but you loved it. The normality, I bet. Even Dad kind of liked it after a while and started using that stupid phrase whenever you bitch at me to take care of myself." His face scrunched and he mimicked in a whiny, nasally voice. "_Samuel Knows Best, Dean._"

Sam gaped with mock astonishment. "Did you just use a four syllable word?"

Dean smiled all cheesy, eyes rolling again. "Hardy har-har."

Pointing a finger to the ceiling, Sam turned and looked knowledgeable. "Ya know, Jim Anderson was ranked number six in TV Guide's list of the '50 Greatest TV Dads of All Time' a few years ago."

Dean quirked a brow. "Do I wanna know why you know that? That show was so stupid."

Sam chuckled. "Hey, I didn't hear you complaining when they showed the teenage daughter, Princess. You had a total crush on her and you know it."

Dean licked his lips and soon they were pulling into a flirtatious grin. "You gotta admit that she rocked those short bangs, man. Virgins are hot."

Now it was Sam's turn to snort. Ah, things were back to normal again. Whatever 'normal' was for them. The sun was setting perfectly and the stench of cowshit was long gone now.

"So where to now, college boy?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the nickname. At first he didn't know what to say. A finger made it's way to his lips in thought but suddenly, he smirked as he remembered their deal from before. "Vegas?"

Giving his young brother a sideways glance, Dean puckered his lips attentively. "Vegas," he agreed, then his eyes abruptly narrowed in a playful manner.

"And, dude? Where's that gum I asked for?" 

The End.


End file.
